Being Alive
by zrose
Summary: What would happen if the worlds of Webber and Sondheim collided? Would two people be able to find out more about their past, and maybe their future? Will they encounter more musical numbers along the way? Will they find something more?
1. Chapter 1

(I wrote this in honor of the new crossover section. I just feel bad at the end of AU fics where Raoul ends up alone, so I made this for him. This is going to be an E/C fic, I just wanted to bring out the Other Woman (who is not a Mary-Sue, as you will see in later chapters. I've tried to make this palatable for as many people as possible. I'm not sure what universe this is, maybe its a mix of everything. There are no truly evil protagonists in this, everyone is just a little silly. Prepare for the unexpected, including a songfic or two, anything is possible. Anyway, I hope you're still here after reading this novel-length note, and I hope you'll enjoy.)

As much as he loved his sister, he hated having to visit her.

He knew that was very cruel to say, but he was still young. He wasn't some bored housewife with nothing to do, who wanted to invite people for tea just to create some purpose in their hollow existence.

That may have been too much. He scolded himself for not controlling his temper, and being easily flustered over the delay. The carriage seemed to have rolled into a small pothole, and the right wheels were digging into the mud.

To top these fortuitous events towards a most anticipated afternoon, it started to rain.

He cursed his fate. This was a new suit, and he had spent a good deal of money getting the waistcoat altered. Heaven knows how all this water was affecting the silk.

After twenty minutes, he was starting to sneeze. He rubbed his nose, paid the driver, and headed off to the manor...where ever that was.

After getting lost for a good twelve minutes or so, he was able to loose himself enough that he knew perfectly well where he was. After straightening the remains of his cravat, he rang the doorbell. He barely had time to register bright blue eyes with tiny creases around the edges before he was trapped in a rather improprietal, bone-crushing hug.

"Raoul! Thank goodness you've come!" Much to the relief of his lungs, she let go and inspected his clothes, "Oh, you look dreadful! Come, sit by the fire. Your trunk has already arrived, and I've made sure everything has been sent to the blue room, the one with the view of the sea. I remember how much you like it."

Now he remembered why he liked coming here. Now that he was with his sister, laughing over old stories from long ago and watching her pretty face with all of its many silly expressions as she rambled on about the latest gossip. Being with her always reminded him of his mother, and as much as he hated to admit it, she was becoming a distant, faceless blur as the years went on.

Of course, the sea was another added bonus. His brother joked that with all the time he's spent in the Navy, the last place he would want to be right now would be the coast. This was far from the case. The sea was protean and natural, unlike the rigid, stifling city life in Paris. Every time he came to that one place by the sea, his favorite place in the world, it would always be different. There would always be something new to discover, like a starfish when he was five, the the scallop shell when he was eight, and the pretty girl with the red scarf when he was ten. He wondered what happened to Little Lotte, but he knows she's somewhere out there, barefoot and collecting seashells by the beach.

"It's just like I remembered it," he smiled. He noticed how quiet the house was. "Where are the children?"

"Jeanne thought it would be a good idea to take them out on a walk after luncheon."

"Jeanne?"

"Oh, yes, I forgot to mention her. She's the new governess I've hired. Quite a nice girl." She left it at that, there wasn't much of a need to say more.

The next two days were uneventful, and he loved it. After years of keeping every minute accounted for at the naval academy, loafing off was the most excitingly sinful experience. He took walks, rode one of the horses at the stable, and finally caught up on his reading.

"You cannot stay cooped up in the house for the whole week. There are a few other families vacationing here as well, with pretty daughters who will probably want to throw parties to show them off," She thought her neighbors were a bunch of inbred fools who were more pretentious than they could afford to be, she must be getting desperate. "Wouldn't it be lovely to spend an evening doing something worthwhile?"

"I wouldn't call a ball anything worthwhile, you know how much I detest them. All those giggling, simpering..."

"Laurent and I are going, so if you do not accompany us, I'm afraid you will not be able to have any dinner," she replied stiffly. "I always dismiss the servants when I go away for the evening, can't let them go snooping through my jewels and whatnot."

Raoul smiled, "I think I'll survive."

His sister gave one last dramatic sigh of defeat, (shame she wasn't born into a lower station, she would have made a brilliant actress) and walked away. Glad to have one this battle, he picked up his copy of The Count of Monte Christo, and headed outside to his favorite tree.

He took some bread and an apple from the kitchens and wrapped it in his a handkerchief. After locking the door, he trudged up the grassy hill by the house. From the look of the light, he guessed that he had an hour or so before sunset to read under his favorite tree. The lower branch was sturdy enough to make a nice seat.

As he got to the top of the hill, he saw someone was already up on the branch, a young woman, probably around his age, with hair that glinted gold in the sun. She had stolen his spot, and had taken upon herself to get already engrossed in her own book.

"Excuse me," he spoke softly at first, not to distress her, but she did not respond. "Excuse me!"

The woman looked up abruptly from her book, causing her to loose her balance and fall off the branch. He saw a flash of white, and heard her scream. He ran over to see if she was injured.

"My God! I'm truly sorry, Mademoiselle, I did not expect you to fall in such a manner. Are you injured?"

Her petticoats were disarrayed and rumpled, and her hair flew out of its bun into long, thin strips that trailed at least 20 centimeters away from her, creating the image of an angel in a bright blue dress. She took a moment to regain her breath, and when she saw she was in the presence of a man, she attempted to clear the hair out of her face. Raoul found it charming. "Mademoiselle? How do you feel."

Any embarrassment she might have had vanished. Her eyes were like steel. "Madame."

Raoul knew he should not be surprised that she was married. After all, she could not be younger than 20, but it still unnerved him a little. "Pardon me. Do you need me to escort you to your house?"

She nodded, "That would be lovely, thank you." He had thought about carrying her, like in the stories, but as she picked herself up and dusted off her dress, she was quite fine. Well, she had a limp, but that was to be expected. He still posed the offer, and she laughed.

"You don't have to have some misplaced sense of obligation towards me. You only have to apologize for startling me."

"Well, if you had paid attention, you would have heard me."

"How would you expect me to pay attention when I was in the middle of something?" She supported herself with the help of a smaller tree nearby. "Besides, it is never a good idea to disturb someone suspended in the air anyway. What was so important that you had to?" She winced.

"You were in my seat."

"Your seat?" She tried to look amused. "I've never seen you here before."

"I come here every year."

"And I come here every day."

"Then how have I not seen you before?" he asked. She didn't look like anyone from the neighboring families.

"I could ask you the same question." She could tell he was not from the town, his accent was too posh.

"Where do you live?" He didn't really want to tell her who he was. Interesting people always became tedious when you mention titles.

"Over there." She said, pointing to his sister's house.

"What a funny coincidence." He smiled.

So that was how he met Jeanne. Well, actually her name was something annoyingly English. She was one of those foreign governesses that would teach languages by living with them, and since Phillippe had business ties with the English, he encouraged the idea. Personally, he liked her just being there to talk to him when the children fell asleep, like his own little Jane Eyre. Sadly, he laughed at his silly literary jokes. It turns out she had a good taste in books. She particularly like Stevenson and Verne, who were among his favorites. They had similar tastes in music as well, and could talk for a while on the subject. She was funny, and had a lovely smile. Of course, his sister would have a fit if she knew he was talking to the governess, but she didn't seem like a Becky Sharp in any way. The week would be over soon anyway, and he would not see her again.

"I cannot believe you are sad about going to Paris." laughed Jeanne. She handed him a basket full of food for the carriage ride. Raoul had decided to set off early since the sky had already darkened with clouds. "With all the parties, the women, and the excitement, I thought you would be thrilled!"

"If only you knew. Phillippe is going to show me all of that. And I don't particularly like it at all. It's too loud in Paris. I suppose I wouldn't have minded going to the Opera, but he made that boring as well. He wants me to become a patron, to make my self known and active in the Paris social scene. I'll probably be stuck doing all sorts of boring supervision and paperwork." She didn't look very sympathetic. She laughed.

"I am grateful for your sympathy."

"Oh, stop being so childish."

"I am not childish!" He grinned. "For that, you are now going to have to suffer through my letters."

"Letters?"

"Yes, I am writing to you every day now from Paris." She didn't look bothered in the least. "And you are going to write back a response."

"What about your family?"

"What they do not know cannot hurt them. Remember, I'm writing to you."

She laughed. Knowing Raoul, he would probably forget in the next hour or so.


	2. Chapter 2

"Monsieur Vicomte, you received another letter!"

Raoul had recently come back from his rather tiring first day as patron. He unbuttoned his coat, and set it on the rack himself, much to the protest of Claudette, the housekeeper for their loft in Paris.

"Really?" Raoul grabbed the small ivory envelope from the tray held out for him. Hastily, he ripped open the top with his fingers.

"Twice this week." she noted disapprovingly.

"It's just a friend," he brushed off. He scanned the page as he replied to her. He laughed, and rushed up to his room to read the rest and write a proper reply without Claudette looking over his shoulder. Raoul was glad that she was concerned for him; after all, when she was his governess she was the closest thing he had to a mother figure, but sometimes she was a but stringent.

Dear Djohana,

I tried to spell it out as it sounds, but alas, I have failed once again. Perhaps we are even, seeing as you and so many others have difficulty pronouncing my own name. I think the closest attempt I heard sounded something like "Rawl."

On to serious matters, which I fear we may never reach at the rate our current conversations last, I am now officially a patron at the Opera Populaire. Yes, a round of applause would do nicely. Are you laughing? How unfortunate, Jeanne, I thought you were my friend. Yes, I know I said in my last letter I would start calling you by your real name against your will, but I relapse every now and then.

Anyway, I digress. I guess I should be happy. Now I will not have to be idle doing nothing while Phillipe is at work with some financiers, and this is better than some stuffy dinner party, but I doubt that even you would be able to find a silver lining to this. I went to the retirement party for the former managers, who were complete loons by the way. And the new ones are not any better. They are just some profiteers from the junk business who are really only managing the place for the money. There were rumors about another pair of managers who were much more qualified for the position to come, Richard and Montcharmin, but neither of the former managers have heard a word from them.

There's nothing for me to do there, really. Of course there is paperwork, and I have to talk to the managers to see how the productions are progressing, but that only takes three to four hours. I do not want to stay there for unnecessary periods of time, but I don't want to feel useless either.

Oh, and of course Johanna, I thought I would save the best for last. Apparently, the Opera has had a tradition of claiming to be haunted for the past eleven years or so, and they have all made a big hubbub about it. Whenever a set falls, or something gets stolen, they always blame the Opera Ghost. And the ballet mistress, Madame Giry, only helps with this legend by telling everyone about the ghost's demands. I am not sure whether to be amused or annoyed by this, it happens all the time. And whenever said events occur, the ballerinas scream loudly, and I loose a little but of my ability to hear each day. How is everything where you are? Is my sister well? I would love to hear from you.

With fond regards,

Raoul

"Fond regards?"

Raoul lost control of his pen, and the blue ink welled up on the edge of the page.

"Phillipe!" He jumped out of his desk. "I wasn't expecting you home before minuit!" He tried to grab his brother into an embrace, but Phillipe just looked at him pointedly.

"I am not sure I approve of your correspondence with the maid, and I am quite certain our sister would not approve either."

" She's a governess." Raoul corrected.

"Even better," shouted Phillipe. "Why don't you just classify what status she is? That way you can justify ruining our family name! Raoul, don't you have any sense? After all I've done to keep the family together…"

"Phillipe! I do not entertain any romantic notions for her!"

Although he was still sullen, Phillipe stopped shouting at him, and folded his arms.

"Very well then. I know what it's like, being young, and I am not saying you should not have fun, but try to be discrete about it." Before Raoul could correct him, Phillipe walked to his study in a huff.


	3. Chapter 3

Raoul,

I apologize for the brevity of this letter, but I am afraid I have very little time to write. I have received a new position, and I must prepare for the journey. I have thoroughly enjoyed our correspondence. Perhaps our paths shall meet again one day. If not, I can say that I will cherish our time together.

Johanna

"Philippe, how could you?"

Raoul stormed into the dining room, letter in hand.

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you are talking about." He gently tapped the top of his boiled egg, letting the yolk bubble onto the individual pores of his toast.

"It's one thing to punish me for any perceived indiscretions, but a different thing entirely to deprive a young woman of her livelihood for my sake. Was she sent away?"

"Yes, she was. Our sister had the good sense to dismiss her once she had found out what transpired. And that girl was probably looking for more than a livelihood for you."

"They were just letters! And Mme. Hope is married anyhow!"

"Was married. She happened to be a widow when she first stepped on de Chagny property. I cannot vouch for her virtue afterwards."

Stunned, Raoul stood there for a moment, panting. He took a deep breath, regained his composure, and promptly turned around and retreated to his bedroom.

Philippe sighed. He was glad this nonsense was over, but he was beginning to worry about his brother. He cared too much for people sometimes. He flipped through the paper, anxious to see what the latest readings were for the shares on that Sturgeon farm. And his egg was getting cold.

Raoul was at first bothered by the absence of Johanna, but he decided it would be best to forget about her. After all, they had only know each other for what, three months? Hardly any time to form a substantial connection.

So, he decided to pour his energy into work for the upcoming opera. Although Hannibal was not one of Raoul's favorite operas, it was supposed to be better than the gala that was suggested. Supposedly the ghost forced them to perform the opera because the current prima donna, Carlotta, had a voice that was not suited to sing Margurite from Faust or anything out of Romeo and Juliet. While viewing the opera, however, Raoul began to wonder whether or not it was the manager's idea to give the Italian, or was it Spanish, nightengale less stage time.

While he was at rehearsals, Raoul couldn't help but notice a young girl staring intensely at him and giggling to her blonde friend. He found the pair to be incredibly disturbing in the way they described physical aspects about him, as if he was not there. Perhaps if he ignored them, they would stop.

Otherwise, things went relatively normal. Well, as normal as any rehearsal could go with an insane prima donna, unruly dancers, and a supposed ghost that likes to pelt the performers with scenery and harass people with notes. Raoul had received one, much to his dismay. It welcomed him to quote-on-quote his house rather sarcastically, thought Raoul was still not sure how he could translate sarcasm so well onto paper. He stated the usual demands (Though in all honesty, what made him so sure it was a he? It could easily be some hoax from a really bored Mme. Giry.), and made some cleverly subtle, vaguely threatening remark. All in all very disappointing for a ghost; Raoul began to doubt the intelligence and sanity of the people he worked with.

On the day of the first performance, something unexpected happened. Carlotta could not perform, saying she was feeling ill. Luckily, an understudy was called in, and Mme. Giry vouched for her vocal skills.

Raoul was unaware of the change, however, and was startled to hear the voice again. Pure. Full of clarity, similar to the chime of bells, but with a more haunting tone than he remembered. Memories of crackling bonfires at the beach, or evenings listening to the violin's tales flooded back.

It couldn't be, but it was.

Raoul spoke briefly with Christine after the opera.

She looked so different compared to the Little Lotte she once was. Not only had she lost the cheerful, carefree attitude of her youth, but she had grown significantly paler and thinner in comparison. Her hair had darkened as well from its once-golden shine to a dark-mahogany hue. But her petite frame gave her a child-like appearance that still kept some of the spirit of Lotte.

They talked of their childhood as Raoul recalled a poem they used to sing when Daddy Daae was still alive. He asked her to accompany him to dinner, but she refused, claiming that the Angel of Music would not approve. Raoul laughed, what a lovely sense of humor the girl had! He left the room to let her change, and waited outside for her.

He waited. chuckling at the joke about the Angel of Music, until he heard a beautiful, but terrible voice inside the dressing room. The voice of a man. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. Bracing himself, he banged his shoulder into the door in an attempt to batter it down. It failed on the first try. And the second. His shoulder began to throb, so he declined on trying a third time, and headed home disappointed and anxious.

Philippe knew he had gone to see Christine, but he had not heard of what happened afterwards. Raoul thought it would be best not to mention the incident, given that he had yet to speak to him after what happened with Johanna.

As he set his hat down on the table, he noticed a small envelope addressed to him.

Surely enough, it was Johanna. She had written about her new job as a schoolmistress, and he current whereabouts. Thrilled, Raoul rushed to the study to grab a pen and some paper.

Dear Johanna,

You would never believe who I met today…


	4. Chapter 4

(I did mention this was an E/C fic at the beginning. I don't really write for this ship, since I can't really understand it, so I couldn't possibly think of a way for it to work, but I'm going to have to. I rented the movie, so maybe that will help.)

The man walks over to the chair. His eyes glow red, and his hair is disarrayed. With a swift click, the blade pops open and the silver glares through an unnaturally crimson moon.

He smiles. His teeth are sharp. His mouth is red.

The chair has its back turned. It rocks wearily, and exhales in painful creaking sounds.

"Do you remember?" he whispers.

She can hear shrieks from below the floorboards.

"Well, do you remember?" He asks with a wild desperation, "Do you?"

Johanna wonders how her heart could beat so loudly, or how it could even beat at all.

He grabs the chair. Johanna clutches onto the trunk for safety. She sees the blood spurt onto the man's vest, but she hears nothing. She sees those large, lifeless blue eyes. As the man moves away the almost white hair from the woman's sallow face, Johanna screams as she sees its her own.

Looking back, she was almost thankful for the carpet, no matter how overpriced it was. Goodness knows the merchant was stubborn. Genuine Persian rug her…oh dash it all! Well, at any rate, she was glad she had it. After falling off the bed, she was surprised she had not managed to break her neck. Rubbing a very sore shoulder, she decided she had better make some tea and get on with the day. She was going to need it.

At least the nightmares were getting better with time. For a few months after Anthony died, they were almost unbearable. Setting the kettle on the fire, she thought about the lesson plans for the day. Same as always.

So this is what silk feels like, thought Christine as idly grazed her hand over the sheets. She had worn a satin dress before, once, during a production of Coppelia a year ago. But, the dress was returned once the season was over.

Where was she anyway? It took a great deal of energy to want to get out of bed, and whenever she tried to roll off, there was still more bed. Must be a queen size, at least. She snuggled deeper into the sheets, only to feel overheated. Frustrated, she pushed off the covers and hopped out of bed, colliding head to head with a terrifying beast.

She screamed, only to find that she was scared of a small music box. She touched it to make sure it wasn't alive, just in case. She laughed. It had its own adorable charm, in a strange way.

Her head was still spinning as she tried to stand up, and she still felt a haze about her. She remembered a mist, a lake, and…a man?

No, her angel had taken her down here, hadn't he? So, this man was a messenger? Her angel was a solitary type; he wouldn't need a messenger. So was the man her angel?

That must be it. Maybe that was why he wore a mask, so that she would not be blinded by his heavenly beauty, like how the Greek gods would visit mortals in disguise. But, she wanted to see him. After so many years of only having a disembodied voice to hold onto as a source of hope and sanity, she needed to see him. Though, as she thought the matter over, she wondered if it was a good decision. What if she ended like Semele, burned by her own curiousity?

She had been under for a while, for ages at least. Erik hadn't expected her to be so affected by the morphine, it was only a small dose. On the first day, he was anxious. Pacing back and forth after the fainting incident, trying to come up with a good excuse for lying to her for ten years. Somehow, he felt that expressing the depth of his love would not be sufficient, nor would it be an appropriate for him to express said love at the current time.

The next day he sat by her bedside and caught up with his reading, He finished the entire works of Edgar Allan Poe. The man was a genius really, it was a shame that he was dead.

By now, he had given up waiting. There is only so much love can endure, and his first love, music, was calling him back. Besides, Christine would probably sleep through his composing anyway. In his less despondent moods, the organ was not quite so hellish.

Then, she came. Swiftly, toward the organ. Erik smirked and kept on playing, amused at how much she couldn't resist him. That is, until she took off the mask.

His eyes. She had never seen such feriocity in anyone's eyes before. And his voice, it shook through the walls. Yes, the face was a shock, but the anger it expressed was much more terrifying. Slowly, she picked up the mask.

As their eyes met, Erik knew he truly loved Christine. She did not scream at the sight of him. She did not call him a monster. She did not even demand him to put the mask back on. Instead, she gave it back to him because she knew he would want it back. She was willing to help, she would listen when other failed to hear him. Yet, she was a silent martyr of her own suffering, putting away her grief from others and only opening herself to her angel. Feeling guilty for keeping her so long, he decided to send her back. For now. They would have very little time to practice for the upcoming production of Il Muto.

(I got the Erik getting his mask back=love thing from an interview from Michael Crawford, so even though I think it sounds cheesy, I want some, if not nominal, character anaylsis, so it's staying in. I also threw Sweeny in for kicks, but his real self is better, don't worry. I'm not heartless


	5. Chapter 5

Raoul stormed into the Opera house fuming. As soon as he had taken the note from the tray, he could tell something was off by the red wax, skull embossed seal. But really, this was too much!

He looked at the crisp, ivory stationary which carried the ornate crimson scrawl.

"Do not fear for Miss Daae, the Angel of Music has her under his wing, make no attempt to see her again."

The Angel of Music! Who could have sent this? From what Raoul read from the papers, Christine was kept under lock and key, and supposedly "vanished" after the gala. Knowing those opportunist managers, this was probably a hoax to get in more sales. The ticket queues were lining literally out the door, and although that would probably delight his brother, Raoul was disgusted at the lengths to which these men would go to exploit someone as innocent as Christine.

Without thinking, Raoul confronted the two. Once he saw their bewildered looks at the note, he noticed his mistake. Of course the managers did not send the note, they weren't smart enough to come with such a plan.

"Well, if you didn't write it, who did?" he asked.

Perhaps it was Madame Giry? The managers would not have cared about his relationship with Christine, but she was very protective and probably close enough to her to know the significance of Christine's Angel.

Though, considering the fact that she told various reporters after the gala that all the credit for her work went to said Angel, everyone probably knew by now (and questioned her sanity).

"WHERE IS HE?"

Raoul jumped at Carlotta's fury. Even in civilian mode she sounded as if she was in mid-aria.

"Your precious patron!" He rather resented that term.

"What is it now?" He might as well get this over with.

"I have your letter!" she screamed, "A letter which I rather resent!" They weren't exactly even, but that helped.

After adamantly denying that he sent the letter ("As if he would," he was glad that at least Andre was on his side, partially. This was ridiculous), he saw it was another of those notes.

As he read Carlotta's note, his brow furrowed. Her days were numbered? What kind of "great misfortune" would happen if they refused these requests? As the managers tried to placate their sulking diva, Mme. Giry interrupted announcing that Christine had returned.

Relief was quick, but brief. He wanted to see Christine was safe, not frightened or worried over what must have transpired during her absence. Mme. Giry said she would see no one, with the flimsy excuse that she needed rest, and then presented another, even more threatening note.

It was all rather suspicious, Mme. Giry's perfect timing. But, he knew he shouldn't get ahead of himself. The woman was the closest thing Christine has to a mother, so she probably is looking out for her best interests. And if she was the Opera Ghost, or Phantom, or whatever, wouldn't she promote her own daughter's advancement as well? He saw the girl standing unobtrusively behind her mother, wearing her white practice uniform. Her eyes were wider, and more terrified than they normally were, which was saying something. This was not good.

No one was going to help him at the Opera; the managers sold their common sense for profits, and Mme. Giry was beginning to scare him. After making a few cursory glances around the set to show people he was doing his job, he decided to go back to his apartment. He needed to write to Johanna.

* * *

After reading the letter, Johanna couldn't think of anything to say. This was a mystery, like the ones Monsieur Dupin faced (well, this probably was different, but she had little reference in such matters). If this was not happening to real people, she would be delighted to see what twists and turns the story was going to take. But, since this was happening to Raoul, she had to do her best to help him stop this madness.

Contemplating what little options she had, she finally made a decision and replied to Raoul.

Funny she would feel this way. Honestly, she had thought she had lived through enough adventure for one lifetime. Then again, that was a lifetime ago.

(This is set 1870s-ish by the way, so no Sherlock Holmes. This chapter is a little rushed, I'm sorry for the delay. It's mostly a filler, and I've taken some dialogue from the movie, but I'll go back and fix this later.)


	6. Chapter 6

Raoul,

You need to get her out of there. This opera seems to be driving her mad, and if you do not find a way out, it will take you too. Believe me, I know what such a place can do to someone. I have an extra room, so Christine will be able to stay with me until you are able to convince your family. Leave as soon as you can, I will be waiting.

Good Luck,

Johanna

Raoul studied the letter again. Gently, he placed it back on his desk and paced around the floor.

Leave Paris? It was all so sudden, he had only found Christine a few days ago, and they had only talked for a few minutes at best. Would she even want to leave with him? He knew the opera house was her only home, and pressuring her would not be the right method.

He would just speak to her directly. Explain his motives, and that his intentions were honorable…well, they would just go from there. He could hear Phillippe's nagging disapproval inside his head already, and he did not even want to contemplate what his sisters would say.

No. He had to do this. Christine's life depended on him, and by all means he would do all he could in his power to save her from…whatever it was going on there, ghosts, demons or ballet mistresses.

As he arrived at the opera house, the contents of the notes kept whirring through his head. He wished he could ignore the current situation, but he knew these were not idle threats. Ghost or not, there was something foul. If only there was a way to stop it. But, if it had been there for at few decades, then perhaps there was no solution.

He should stay and catch the embezzler. After all, this pertains to his family's money, and leaving right away will not make him disappear. Perhaps Johanna was wrong. He could take his time, find the ghost, then once he and Christine had to readjust to each other, properly propose to her. Yes, that would be the best course of action.

The show was about to start. Sitting uncomfortably in his box, he could only dread the fate of the opera that gave Christine a silent part.

It began without any problems. It was just a run of the mill eighteenth century romp about adultery and the aristocracy. Mindless fluff, nothing new.

That was until the middle of the aria in Act I, when a booming voice resonated throughout the theatre. He seemed to disappear immediately, but the diva's croaking soon afterwards proved something was amiss. Raoul fidgeted in his seat, this was not good.

Rising, he decided to go backstage and find out what was going on. Christine had been pulled from her obscurity once more to play the lead, and the ballet was mildly panicked at having to move their performance up two acts. Problem solved, if not for the embarrassing lack of composure from the rest of the crew backstage

Suddenly, a body shot down from the rafters.

There were screams from the dancers as the huddled together in the wings, as far as they could go from the corpse. Some of the extras ventured closer, to get a better look. The audience stared passively, enjoying the show.

He had to get to Christine; her life might be in danger.

Luckily, she was safe. Frightened, but unscathed. She dragged him up onto the roof, climbing endless flights of stairs with him without giving a proper explanation why.

On the roof, she revealed to him the deception of her angel and the description of the enigmatic man that was fascinated with her. Raoul saw a spark in her eyes as she talked about him, but he brushed it aside. She was distraught, she was probably crying. Though, he was uncomfortable with the amount of awe she had for her captor. This was not healthy. She had to get her out of here as soon as possible. Christine could stay with him in Paris until he could properly contact Johanna, and then sort everything else out.

She kissed him! He could barely contain his excitement as he ran down to call the carriage.

Taking Christine by the hand, he walked with her up the stairs to his house. She giggled with anticipation, and he playfully shushed her.

"Oh Raoul, what will the neighbors think?"

"Who cares what the neighbors think? They're a bunch of stuffy old windbags anyway." He grinned as he turned the key to the lock.

"Monsieur!" Claudette ran over towards him, and without thinking embraced him. "Mon Dieu, are you alright? Never scare me like this again!"

"What's going on?" She was inspecting him, making sure he was not injured, and fretting.

"Somebody came here earlier. I am not sure how, we have the best security in Paris, but he came here. A big, shadowy figure. He demanded to see you, he wanted 'to take back what you have stolen' and…and he threatened your life! Oh, Monsieur deChagny, he was horrible. He was like a skeleton, or a spectre…"

"A ghost?" suggested Raoul.

"Yes. He…he…" She tried to form the words, but her body quivered. She started to cough violently, falling onto the floor gasping for breath. Raoul gently lifted her off of the floor, rocking her in support

He gave Christine the directions to a house a few blocks away, where a doctor resided and heard the rustle of her dress and the tap of her boots as the ran out the door.

As the woman drifted further away from consciousness, Raoul noticed her fist beginning to unclasp. Framed by her thin, long, bony fingers was a red wax seal with a large embossed skull.

(A/N: Yes, it has been a while, I'm sorry for not updating sooner, if anyone still remembers this. This year's been hectic, and I've been having a hard time deciding what direction I wanted to take with this. Well, I have a half-formed plot in my head, and I might as well finish this sometime soon. If you are reading this, I would love reviews. I know Johanna sent her response a little too quickly, but I would like you to suspend disbelief for now. It did seem like too much happened in one day in Phantom, and then it left out six months. Anyway, there will be more Johanna soon, and eventually we will get into the universe of Sweeney Todd, but it will come later. If you are willing to stick around, I will try to make this as enjoyable as I possibly can. So, that's all for now folks, I just hope I haven't put you to sleep yet with this long note. )


	7. Chapter 7

"We have to go back," whispered Christine, as if he could hear them. "Oh, why did I think I could escape? It's hopeless, he will always find me." Raoul noticed that she had stopped making eye contact and was staring off into the distance. This plan was not faring well.

"We shouldn't act rashly. Let's read the note, and respond from there." Raoul steadied his hand and gently opened the seal. He brushed off the remains of the wax skull and pulled out the thin sheet of paper.

Scrawled in red ink was the sole sentence able to say everything.

I know.

He did admit, whoever this was: man, spirit, or ether, he had a flair for theatricality.

"Should I get some water? Maybe she would feel better if she had a compress," suggested Christine.

"Yes, that sounds good," Raoul replied absentmindedly. Slowly, he lifted the woman onto the chaise. It bothered him to see her so weak when she had been strong and supportive for the both of them – when Maman and the baby died in childbirth, when Papa started to drink, when his other siblings were too involved in their own problems to listen to him…

The sight of Christine distracted him from his melancholy. "Where is the kitchen? I thought I would ask you before I got lost."

Raoul stared at her blankly. "The kitchen? I'm not sure. Maybe we could ask one of the servants."

"I think most of them are asleep," Christine furrowed her brows. What kind of person does not even know where his own kitchen is? Granted, she was probably biased, she thought, back when she still lived in a house, her mother's death left her with an unusual view of what was proper– she and her father split the household work evenly, but he would usually cook since her father thought she was too young to go near the stove. She was mildly disturbed. Although she was caught up in her memory of their childhood romance, Christine could see that her life was unequal to Raoul's, She really did not belong in his world

Raoul smiled, "Then I guess we better look for it," he took a nearby candle off one of the side tables, "I haven't had much time to explore since I moved. It will be an adventure."

Taking his hand, she gave a small sigh of relief and grinned. Why was she being so foolish? They loved each other, and that would be enough.

Erik sighed. Looking out the drawing room window, he could see his threat went unheeded. It was a shame really, he had not meant to harm the old woman, just send a message. It didn't seem that the fool deChagny seemed to care. It seemed once again, he would have to take matters into his own hands. Quitely sliding open the latch, he pulled open the large glass pane and carefully descended into the room, wishing the young "lovers," (How disgusted he was too call them that – how degrading to think that his Christine would entwine her name with anyone besides her angel!) had left him a candle. He wiped the snow off his shoulders and walked over to the figure on the chaise. After checking her pulse, (which was regular) and making sure she did not have any physical injuries, (she did not) he placed one of the cushions over her head. They would probably return soon, he thought. He prepared his stance for confrontation, but nearly tripped over his own cloak from surprise as he heard a knock on the door.

Johanna checked her pocket-watch. Raoul was an hour late, and he had not sent any word about how his end of the plan was going. At this rate, her cabby was going to charge the earth tonight – or at least more than she could afford. When they failed to meet her at the appointed time, she had gone to the Opera, only to hear from a rather cross woman that Raoul had already departed with Miss Daae. The gendarmes were questioning people backstage, and she could overhear other members of the cast whispering something about a murder, triggering memories of dark soulless eyes, streams of blood, and a razor pressed to her throat. She clenched the watch. She had been idly fiddling with it as a means to distract herself as she raced to Raoul's house. It was Antony's. She had first seen it the night he rescued her from Fogg's Asylum, disguised as a wigmaker, but he never told her how he obtained it. The only clue she had were the initials B.B. lightly etched on the back. She thought of knocking again before the door opened on what seemed like its own volition.


End file.
